I just stared at it.
“What’s wrong now?” my mother snapped, already impatient. “You’re not going to eat?”
“I’m… not hungry,” I murmured.
She sighed and waved a hand. “Always the difficult one. Can’t you at least appreciate your sister’s effort?”
Patricia tilted her head. “It’s okay, really. She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to.”
“She should,” Denver cut in smoothly. “Patricia went through the trouble. Don’t be rude, Alicia. It’s not always about you.”
Not always about me?
I bit my lip. Hard. They didn’t know. Or maybe they did and simply forgot.
I was allergic to shrimp. I had been hospitalized for it once. A full-blown anaphylactic shock. But no one remembered. No one asked.
Not even Denver. Not even my own mother because even if I said no, they forced me to eat, just for Patricia.
“Fine,” I said, swallowing my pride—and spoonful of pasta.
It only took seconds.
My throat began to tighten. My chest felt like it was caving in. I couldn’t breathe.
I clutched the table edge, gasping.
“What now?” Paula snapped. “Is the food not good enough for you?”
“She’s doing this on purpose,” Denver muttered, sipping his wine. “If you didn’t like it, you could’ve just said so, Alicia.”